


Oh the Mountain Top

by deathwailart



Series: Dragon Knights [OLD] [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Dragons, High Fantasy, Mother-Son Relationship, Storytelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2013-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-14 15:45:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/838594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathwailart/pseuds/deathwailart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A mother tells her son the history of their world and how it is carried on the back of a dragon.</p>
<p>Written for Imaginary Beasts mountain edition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oh the Mountain Top

"Let me tell you a story," mother says, scooping a child who all too often protests that he is too big to be sat in laps save for occasions when he wants to such as when he's tired or when attention is being lavished solely upon him, "of where we call home, how the world came to be."  
  
"Is it better than papa's stories?" He asks with eager eyes shining, making himself comfortable. His head rests against one arm so he can tip his face up to look upon hers. She says to close his eyes so he can see it in his own head but he doesn't want to miss mama's face – you see the details when she tells it, in the shape of her mouth, the look in her eyes, the tilt of her chin. He doesn't understand it fully yet, only that mama is a master at stories, the very best.  
  
"Far better than papa's stories." Long fingers tickle his stomach, her other arm steadying him and she delights in his giggles. In the next room the baby sleeps, warm and contented. "But don't tell papa, we don't want to hurt his feelings, do we?"  
  
"No!" He drags out the sound, squirming away from her until she hushes him and he quietens quickly. Ever since the baby came (and a bit before that) time with mama and papa was precious and the baby makes noise, especially when other noises happen when she's not expecting it.  
  
"Hush, hush," and she kisses him because all too soon a day will come when he pushes and pulls away from her and her kisses or stories so she'll savour them now. "Now where best to begin?" It's a storyteller's trick, part of the art, pretending they don't know where best to begin or how much they should humour their audience no matter who that audience happens to be. She wouldn't hold her vaulted position otherwise, the chief storyteller of their village who is known throughout the lands for her talents at weaving their truths with fictions to the point where no one can tell one from the other. Better yet, they can't decide what they want to believe. _That_ is the art of it.  
  
"At the beginning!"  
  
"Anything for you," she settles them more comfortably and readies herself to begin. "You know the name of our world, Stjarnacado, and what that means?"  
  
"Starfall," her son parrots quickly. He's been taught his history since he was in her belly, listening to the stories she told to others and the ones just for him when it was the two of them and sometimes his father.  
  
"Very good. Now, the nymphs of the woods and waters will say that this name comes from what happens to those of their kind who cannot devote themselves to the world and go up into the sky but we all have our own beliefs."  
  
"The nymphs go into the sky?"  
  
"Oh yes, they go right up, soaring and weaving and become stars. They say the world came before the dragons and that it was the stars falling that gave rise-"  
  
"What does that mean?"  
  
"It means to cause something, in this case, they believe that these stars falling to the world made dragons as they fell, magic melding together to make them. Those are not our beliefs but who is to say who is right? One day I will take you to the nymphs in the forest of Borea or the mighty river that runs south of it and you can meet their storytellers and decide what you like best. But here in the north of Stjarnacado there is Jormsen, so named for the mountains and the mountains are the oldest thing in this world. So that is where I will begin."  
  
Her son turns rapturous eyes upon her. They live in Jormsen, the oldest human kingdom in all of Stjarnacado, famed throughout the land and he knows it means a great deal to be from here even though he is too young yet to fully understand why. There's a thrill up his spine, a shiver, hair rising on the back of his neck and arms as his mother's voice deepens when she speaks as though casting a spell. Maybe one day mama will teach him this kind of magic the way she teaches him to control little sparks from his fingers and papa teaches him herbs alongside how to gut and skin the animals he catches.  
  
"The world rests upon the back of a huge dragon, one so vast we cannot comprehend the size – it is strong and silent for the most. This dragon thrives in a place that is molten, fiery red, lava that boils and bubbles the way it does from some far off volcanoes. The world itself are scales, the world you and I see; green grass, forests, fields, expanses of deserts and deep beneath the seas they speak of to the east and beyond." She pauses, glances down and makes sure he understands. This is more than a story, this is his history and he needs to understand that and where they all came from, the very foundations of their culture and way of life. "From the earth and thus from the flesh of this great dragon do the mountains rise with their roots so deep within its body, roots so deep none have ever seen them or even will.  Mountains rise high and cast shadows upon what lies below – the mountains of Jormsen are highest in all of Stjarnacado and the Jormsen Fangs look upon all of Stjarnacado so that we might watch over the rest of the world and keep danger within our sight."  
  
"That's what the Dragon Knights do!"  
  
"Hush!" But she laughs, bends and rubs their noses together and smiles. "Yes, the bold and brave Dragon Knights all train there and serve our high king and queen and the dragons who roost in the caverns and they are our swords and shields-"  
  
"What about magic?"  
  
"Those too but to be a sword and shield sounds best, doesn't it little one?"  
  
"Yes mother."  
  
"Up, up, up," her free hand climbs in jerking motions to demonstrate, "scales upon scales, grinding and groaning and _straining_ \- I have heard these sounds myself, I have felt them beneath my feet," he gasps at that, horrified yet awed, just as he should, "as the dragon flies in a sky that only it can claim, it keeps the world moving because the world is never still, nothing is still whether we realises it or not. So up they rise when the world presses against itself, groans and shudders until there is nowhere else to go, rock bursting through the surface to uproot all that lies in its path because nothing will be tamed forever." He thinks she looks sad when she says it, worried. He doesn't always understand the looks adults share or the way they speak (and especially not the words they say) but mama's face goes pinched and tight and he burrows – snuggles really but he knows he's too big for snuggling unless he's poorly or having a nightmare – into her. "Oh this dragon is a strong one to bear the weight of us, of the cities we build upon its back, the dwarves who are closer to its skin and heart than you or I could ever hope to be."  
  
"Does it hurt?"  
  
"Do you think it would hurt?"  
  
"Papa says dragons can be hurt and that it's why they taught us to heal as well as we do so we can heal others and them so no one has to hurt. And...and it hurts when I fall down and get scratches and those aren't from dwarves tunnelling under me," he explains, missing his mother's indulgent smile as he pokes at scraped palms from slipping on ice a day ago, lips forming a pout.  
  
"Then this dragon is either very strong or willing to bear that pain."  
  
"Why?"  
  
Most parents tired quickly of the why questions. She relished them. "For love, for duty. It was a great pain to bring you and your sister into this world and I did it gladly."  
  
"Papa says women are stronger than men."  
  
"Papa might be right but know this: we each have our own strengths that we learn in time and we are only as strong as each other."  
  
A little brow wrinkles in thought. "I don't understand."  
  
"You will sweetling, you will. Shall I continue?"  
  
Her son nods and settles again, forgetting his worries and questions, satisfied for the moment.  
  
"There are times when force and objects meet and collide. We – all of us, elves, humans, nymphs, dwarves – are prone to arrogance as a whole even though we should strive not to indulge in such a trait. We think we are a force but we aren't, not on such a scale. When we band together then perhaps we can be a force but we cannot continue. Momentum is lost, we grow slow, we grow weary."  
  
"An army marches on its stomach," her son chirps.  
  
"Exactly so. We are ingenious but much of what we know comes from the dragons who listened to our pleas for knowledge after so many years of worship before we humans knew not to fear them and that they meant us no harm but still we are pieces to be moved and for all our cunning, skills and tricks, we will never be more than what we are until it is time to leave the mortal realm. But that," she says quickly before he can cut in, "is a story for another time. I only tell one story and I am telling you of the mountains dearest one." His groan is a little thing and in truth she is glad that he doesn't fight her on this. They are perhaps harsher up north, unwilling to let their children remain children as long as elsewhere out of necessity but she will not tell him of death beyond it being an inevitable fact and something to be embraced rather than feared when it is the right time before he is truly ready. "Time and tide wait for none of us, not even the elves with their many years and the earth will not bend to us fully. It rebels the same way the seas and waterways reclaim it.  
  
"So the earth is never still and the mountains rise from depths uncharted and pierce the very heavens. The mountains come from the very heart of a dragon not even Solace herself has seen." _That_ gets the reaction she hoped for. A look to treasure so she leans in close to continue with a hushed, breathy voice, her eyes wide as the excitement of the moment overtakes her. "Solace, high priestess of all dragons who descended from the very tip of the mountain Jormsen borders, where the castle was carved into the very rock and stone by hand, she who took on our form to speak with us so that we would not be afraid, no, not even great Solace has seen this dragon. No one knows how he or she came to be, he or she who has no name. Sacrifice..." she trails off and it's rare that she falters but she is an expert in masking it and with this audience, she has fewer fears. "Yet they diminish. The wind whips at them with its biting breath and grasping fingers to tear them down, down, down, that same wind that bears aloft the dragons we worship and live alongside. The rain lashes, rivers and waterfalls eat away at them bit by bit and none of them are what they were in the first days when they were the largest things to ever exist with the first life crawling upon them. The places where the air is thinnest and most difficult to breathe. What a challenge to try to conquer a mountain, to look down upon the world with arrogance proclaiming 'I have bested nature this day'." A sneer curls her lip, disdain enough to cow grown men, the nomads who roam and think themselves too restricted living within one of the four kingdoms and all too often now the elves or dwarves who shun the humans and keep their own company or that of the other.  
  
Solace is worried. It is from Solace that she learned this art, sitting at the base of the mountain as the great dragon they revere above all others shifted from dragon, to human, to both and neither at once before her eyes as she spoke and told stories. Words were the greatest gift of Solace for the moment though she said in confidence that her name itself was a greater gift that would not be understood for years to come.  
  
"Will the mountains always be there?"  
  
"Yes. Some will grow small but that is the beauty of the world and in living – as some things depart and are forgotten but for stories, others grow and thrive so that stories may be told of them in time. I have heard that out to sea there are mountains that push up from the sea that will one day be islands."  
  
"Mama," her son says and she can hear little sounds from the next room, quiet and birdlike, chirps that will soon transform into wails that would rival monsters from other stories, "I like your stories best. I don't understand them all the time or all the bits and pieces, but that's why I like them."  
  
"That," she replies, setting him down as she gets to her feet, smiling the proud smile of a teacher and a mother, "makes me very happy."  
  
For it is exactly as it should be, at least in this world and at this time, with the words of Solace ringing in her ears.


End file.
